


The Art Of Letting Go

by msgenevieve



Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: F/M, Gen, post-episode, walk on by
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-01-03
Updated: 2000-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-14 08:58:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Closure isn't always the Holy Grail it's made out to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art Of Letting Go

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to Blast from the Past. It contains spoilers for - and dialogue taken directly from - the S3 episode, "Walk on By". As always, all the characters of LFN remain the property of WB, USA and Fireworks Entertainment, and no copyright infringement is intended. This story contains a few instances of coarse language.

~*~

 

I hate the smell of hospitals.

I hate the cold air, the sterile white walls, the scratchy sheets, the  
contradictory sounds of clanking metal trolleys and soft soled shoes. I  
guess lots of people have unhappy hospital-associated memories, and I'm  
definitely no exception. I can count on one hand the number of times I've  
found myself in one, but each time has left its mark. For as long as I can  
remember, the smell of hospitals has made me feel sick to my stomach, even  
when I wasn't the patient. But now, lying in this cold bed, my heart almost  
pounding out of my chest as I wait for the door to open, the memories are a  
welcome distraction.

The day I worried over Madeline - cold and pale, lying in a spartan room -  
thinking I was now alone in a hopeless search for Michael. Shocked by how  
much I cared whether she lived or died, and not only for Michael's sake.

The day I watched Section operatives carry Michael's apparently lifeless  
body out of Elena Vachek's hospital room. I knew it wasn't real. I knew he  
wasn't dead, that I would see him when I returned to Section. Yet when I  
held Elena in my arms - knowing she was beyond consolation but also knowing  
I had to do what I could - my tears were as real as hers.

Remembering those moments makes my stomach hurt, but it's the last memory  
that's the most painful. It's something I've kept locked away in the dark  
vault in my mind, the vault that was blown wide open the moment Jamie told  
me that my mother was looking for me. I look around me, and feel the insane  
urge to giggle. _How ironic._

It was the day that my appendix nearly burst. I remember it so vividly  
because it was the last time my mother was a real mother to me. It was the  
day she told her boyfriend to take a hike, she was taking her baby to the  
doctor. The day she yelled at the nurses that it was an emergency, and that  
someone had better look after her baby right now or else. My stomach was  
hurting so much, and all her yelling made me feel stupid, but inside I was  
so happy that I didn't care about the pain. Because I knew now that she  
loved me.

After the operation, I lay in my narrow hospital bed in a busy children's  
ward, drowsy and feeling sorry for myself, but I was happy because I  
remembered that my mother loved me. Soon she'd come to get me and take me  
home. Her boyfriend would have 'taken a hike' and she would fuss over me  
like she had before.

I was wrong. It was over a week before she reappeared. I know now that she  
must have been ordered to come by the doctors, or perhaps the police. She  
wasn't drunk yet, but she was getting there. She didn't hug me, just told me  
to get dressed, and muttered something about the nurses not brushing my hair  
and sending me home looking like a hobo. Hurt and angry, I dressed very  
slowly in the clothes I'd been wearing when admitted, wincing when I bent to  
pull on my jeans. It still felt as though there was a broken bottle tangled  
in my insides, but I bit down hard on my bottom lip, determined not to cry  
in front of her.

She'd taken me home in a taxi - complaining about the cost the whole way -  
then told me there was leftovers in the refrigerator. Before I could say  
something - anything - she'd picked up her coat and her bag, told me she was  
going out and not to wait up. Her parting shot was to look me up and down,  
then tell me to do something about my hair.

Ten years later, the memory is so fresh that I close my eyes, suddenly  
miserable, suddenly very grateful for the tube that's been hastily thrust up  
my nose.

I hate the smell of hospitals.

 

 

~*~

 

 

He holds the door to the ward open for me, and I can't help staring at him.  
My mysterious private eye, with his pretty face and pretty words. His name  
is Michael. Twenty years ago, I would have thought he was a prize catch.  
Hell, even five years ago I would have set my cap at him. But today, I feel  
as though I'm a hundred years old. I feel as though my very bones are  
hollow, my blood cold and thin.

When he looks at me, his closed expression makes my stomach clench. "This  
way," he says softly, putting his hand beneath my elbow. He draws me towards  
a closed door along a deserted corridor and my heart begins to pound. My  
palms are damp. _My baby is alive. My baby is behind that door._

The door opens and the world around me vanishes. For a few hazy seconds, all  
I can see is my child. _Nikita._ I look at my beautiful daughter and my  
eyes blur hotly with the tears I've held in for five long years. _I was  
right. I knew you hadn't died, my poor baby. I would have felt it in my  
heart_. The touch on my arm gently shepherds me toward the bed, and the  
reality of what I'm seeing slaps me in the face. There are tubes everywhere.  
She's as white as a ghost. She looks like a corpse. Or maybe she already  
is... _Oh, god._

"My baby. My baby, what have they done to you?" The words come tumbling out  
of my mouth, but I hardly recognise my own voice. Without thought my hands  
have lifted to touch her, and I curl them into fists, fingernails digging  
into my palms, my head aching with a thousand unspoken questions. _Is she  
in pain? Can I touch her_? Feeling more helpless than I ever have in my  
life, I turn to the silent man beside me. "What have they done?"

His gaze meets mine, and it's all I can do not to turn away from the pity in  
his eyes. "When she was in prison, they offered her an alternative to  
incarceration. To be a part of a high risk, top secret medical experiment."  
He pauses, his gaze flicking to my poor daughter. "She knew what she was  
getting into."

A sob catches in my throat. _This can't be happening. Not now, not now  
that I've finally found her. I was going to take her shopping, for Christ's  
sake_! "How could they do this?"

He shrugs, and for a brief moment, I have the strangest feeling that he  
shares my feeling of helplessness. "Well, these things happen all the time."

I try desperately to control the shaking of my hands. I've never wanted a  
drink more in my life. "Is there any hope for her?"

He hesitates, then shakes his head. "The damage is total."

All I can do is stare - at him, and then at the bed. I want to scream. I  
want to tear my hair and throw things and sink to my knees and weep for my  
stupidity and my selfishness and my poor beautiful daughter. "Then why are  
they keeping her like this?"

His answer makes the bile rise to the back of my throat. "They were planning  
to use her body parts to do some other experiments." His touch on my hand is  
gentle, his handsome face serious. "But I was able to gain her release."

I swallow hard, trying to force words out through cold lips. "You...you mean  
I can take her home?"

Michael shakes his head. "No. But you can set her free." He glances at my  
daughter, then his eyes meet mine once more. "I'll let you say goodbye to  
her."

I stand frozen in the middle of the room, the sound of his receding  
footsteps barely registering. The click of the door shutting behind him  
seems very loud in the quiet room, and it jerks me into motion. I take one  
step toward the bed, then another, then another until I've sunk into a chair  
and am holding my daughter's hand. It's something I never thought I'd have  
the chance to do again and at the feel of her skin against mine, I start to  
cry. Through my tears, I study her face, trying to commit it to memory. No  
longer a gawky teenager, my baby is a beautiful woman. Even with all the  
tubes, her skin pallid, her hair tangled, she's beautiful.

"Nikita?" Just to speak her name feels strange, as though I've never said it  
before. I try again. "Nikita?" I don't know if she can hear me, but I have  
to try. I have to tell her everything I've been practicing in my head for  
the last five years, for my own sake as much as hers. "I was never a mother  
to you." Her hand is warm beneath mine and I squeeze it gently. "You know,  
when I...I think back on our time together, I feel like my heart is ripping  
out, and I'm so ashamed." I break off, overwhelmed by shame and tears and  
grief. I shake my head, angry with myself. _Pull yourself together. For  
once in your life, be the grownup and take care of her. _

"What I need to say to you, Sweetie, the reason I tried so hard to find you,  
is...is...that...that wasn't me. This is me." I lift my chin as I say the  
last words, truly believing them for the first time. I touch her tangled  
hair, and the sudden memory of our last visit to a hospital sears my  
conscience. _Oh god, her appendix operation_. Stricken, I squeeze her  
hand a little harder, willing her to open her eyes. Those beautiful blue  
eyes I haven't seen for an eternity.

She doesn't open her eyes. She doesn't twitch a single muscle. She lies  
motionless, her chest barely moving, her legs looking thin beneath the  
hospital blanket. Gathering together the last shreds of my rapidly vanishing  
courage, I force myself to keep going. "You're in my heart. And you always  
have been. And you..." My voice fails me, and I want nothing more than to  
take her in my arms and tell her that everything will be okay. "...and you  
always will be. You know, you know I'm sure that there's...there's one  
memory in there, a fond memory..." It's getting hard to breath. "...and that  
if you really try hard enough you can find it."

 _Please forgive me, baby. Please know that I always loved you. I never  
would have stopped looking for you._

I'm only vaguely aware of the tears that roll down my face, dampening her  
forehead as I press my lips to her smooth brow. Her hair and skin smell  
faintly of flowers, and I am suddenly, almost absurdly grateful that the  
nurses are taking good care of her. "Please. I want...I want you to find it,  
please, and take it with you." She doesn't move. Her closed eyes don't even  
flicker. She's finally lost to me and I want to rage at the world. I want  
someone to blame. I want to find the closest bar and pour scotch down my  
throat until I feel nothing but oblivion.

 _No_. I rise shakily to my feet. _I'm not going down that road  
again_. I can't take my eyes off my daughter, lying so cold and still. My  
insides are churning, my heart is pounding, but somewhere from deep inside,  
I feel a flicker of something that feels like strength. _I won't fail you  
again, baby. Not this time_. Her bright blonde hair feels soft and clean  
under my trembling fingertips, then I turn away from my daughter one last  
time.

 

~*~

 

 

Loitering outside Michael's office, I ponder the wisdom of what I'm about to  
do. It's been two days since our ruse at the hospital - two days since I  
cried so much I thought the nurses would actually have to hook me up to a  
drip - and he hasn't spoken of it to me. Not a single word, only those damn  
searching glances when he thinks I'm not looking.

In those two days, I've made a sort of peace with a lot of things. My  
mother. Jamie. My years on the streets. I feel as though a lot of the  
bitterness in my heart has been lanced, my journey into the past slicing  
into my pain like a heated scalpel, healing even as it drew blood. For the  
first time in a long time, I don't feel as though I have unfinished  
business. _The only person with whom I haven't made peace_ , I think  
sadly, _is Michael._

After our performance for my mother, I waited for him to return to the room.  
He didn't. Instead, my phone rang thirty minutes after my mother had left  
me. It was Michael, sounding as cool, calm and collected as he always did.  
He told me that he'd taken my mother home, and would see me back at Section.  
When I didn't answer, he quickly added that it was safer for us not to be  
seen leaving the hospital together. For your mother's safety, he said  
quietly, and I knew it was the right thing to do. I knew it, but it didn't  
make me feel any better. It didn't stop me from feeling abandoned twice in  
one day.

My eyes now shift towards his closed office door. I know he's in there -  
Walter told me. Leaning against the hallway wall, I scuff the pointed toe of  
my shoe along the smooth floor. Without Michael's help, my mother's efforts  
to find me would have eventually brought her to Section's attention. _Or  
worse,_ I think darkly, _Centre's attention_. Michael saved my  
mother's life. How do you thank someone for that?

I check my watch. I've been here for five minutes. _This is stupid,_ I  
lecture myself. _You can't just stand outside his office all day_.  
Taking a deep breath, I knock on his door, then push it open without waiting  
for an invitation. Michael is standing beside his desk, a PDA in his hands.  
He doesn't look surprised to see me but then again, he doesn't look overcome  
with joy either. He just waits for me to speak, his gaze direct and  
watchful. Expectant.

For some reason, his lack of reaction to my unannounced arrival gives me the  
courage to start my little speech. "I just wanted to..." Our eyes lock and I  
hesitate, briefly losing track of my words. His eyes are burning into mine,  
and the air between us suddenly feels thick with too many unspoken thoughts.  
"...say thank you." It's not much of a speech, but I'm all too aware that he  
hasn't moved to engage the security on his office. _Perhaps he's trying to  
tell me something_, I think wryly.

Michael blinks, a slow fluttering of his eyelashes, but says nothing. I  
think of everything he risked to fix my problem, for no more reason other  
than I asked him to do so, and I'm again overwhelmed, both by his actions  
and the feelings that I seem helpless to control. "That's the kindest thing  
you've ever done for me. Thank you," I add hastily, conscious of the fact  
that I'm repeating myself.

Again he says nothing, but I feel as though I've been dismissed. Faintly  
frustrated by his silence, I nod, then turn towards the door. I only manage  
one step before my frustration wins out. _I'm trying to thank you,  
Michael. Why are you making it so hard for me to thank you?_ I turn on my  
heel and, looking him right in the eyes, stride across the office toward  
him.

My intention is only to ask why he makes it so difficult for people to thank  
him for being a good person, but when I reach his side, something happens. I  
see the emotion darkening his eyes. I feel the warmth of his body. I smell  
his skin, the clean spicy scent that haunts my erotic dreams. In the space  
of a heartbeat, all my words and intentions fly out of my head. Obeying an  
impulse, an instinct stronger than willpower, I take one last step and touch  
my lips to his.

I don't close my eyes or open my mouth. There's no time. The kiss is over  
almost before it begins, but it still ignites every nerve ending in my body.  
I step back, my breath unsteady as I belatedly realise that I've just issued  
a challenge. We stare at each other for a moment. Michael says nothing, does  
nothing. He just looks at me, his vivid eyes glowing with both surprise and  
longing, his lips still slightly parted from my kiss. Sensation prickles  
along my skin like the scrape of sandpaper on tender wood. The air around us  
crackles with sexual energy, and I know that it's time to get the hell out  
of his office. Whatever has just happened between us, this is neither the  
time nor the place to deal with it.

I don't look back, but I can feel his eyes following me as I leave the room  
in silence, then catch me again through the glass window of his office. For  
once, his intense scrutiny doesn't make me feel self-conscious. I manage a  
small smile in return, my pulse quickening as his gaze travels over my face,  
then I turn and walk away.

An hour later, I'm alone in the deserted dojo, sweaty and exhausted after  
doing my best to kill myself. I needed to do something to settle my mind,  
and being on close quarters standby meant that it was either a case of  
taking out my frustration and confusion on a real punching bag, or a hapless  
human substitute. _Never a good idea_ , I muse wearily about the second  
option.

I wipe my face and the back of my neck with the workout towel, then toss it  
to the floor between my feet. I do feel better - my heartbeat is almost back  
to normal after my blistering workout, my skin glowing softly with heat. All  
the kinks in my shoulders are gone, and my thoughts feel pleasantly fuzzy  
around the edges. The only problem is that I'm _too_ relaxed - when my  
mother's words flash unbidden into my head, I'm totally unprepared for the  
grief that surges from nowhere.

 _You're in my heart. And you always have been. And you always will be._

The swell of emotion hits me like a bloody tsunami, and my eyes fill with  
the tears I thought I'd defeated. My chest is tight, my face hot. I dash my  
damp eyes with the back of my hand. Awkwardly. Angrily. _You lost her a  
long time ago. Get over it_. But my emotions are in charge today, and  
they're not listening to me one little bit. Resting my elbows on my parted  
knees, I put my head in my hands and let the tears come. _Let the watchers  
see me crying, I don't care. If they ask, I'll tell them I sprained my  
fucking ankle. _

After a few minutes, I retrieve my towel from the floor so I can wipe my  
face and blow my nose, my eyes swollen and sore. _Is this what it's going  
to be like from now on? The mere thought of her and I'll burst into  
tears_? Everything seemed so much easier when I could pretend that I  
wasn't missing out on anything, that I was better off without my old life.  
When I could tell myself that my mother was a rotten drunk who didn't love  
me.

I twist the towel in my hands. Knowing she loved me hurts more than thinking  
she didn't. Forcing myself to lie as still as death in that hospital bed  
while she poured out her heart to me - saying the words I'd waited so long  
to hear - was one of the most difficult things I've ever done. When she took  
my hand in hers, I was fourteen years old again, and it was all I could do  
not to curl my fingers trustingly around hers.

My eyes prickle hotly with the threat of fresh tears, but I blink them  
determinedly away, then take several deep breaths. I can't undo what's been  
done, and while part of me can't help wishing I'd never known she was  
searching for me, I know I will always treasure the bittersweet memory of  
her weeping at my bedside.

When I hear footsteps, I don't bother to look up. A few seconds later they  
stop in front of me, but I still don't bother to look up. I know who it is.  
"Did she believe it?"

His answer is almost a sigh. "Yes."

"I wish I could have talked to her," I keep my head bowed, screwing up my  
face, determined not to let the tears return. "I wish I could have told her  
that I forgive..." I break off, my throat too tight to let any more words  
out.

We're alone in the dojo, but I'm still shocked by his touch, by the warm  
hand that lightly cradles my head then strokes my damp hair, the gesture  
unknowingly mimicking my mother's last touch. "She knew."

I shut my eyes tightly as he walks away. The lump in my throat is the size  
of the Eiffel Tower. When I hear the door open, I lift my head, my  
tear-blurred eyes finding him just as he is about to leave. "Thank you,  
Michael." It's barely a whisper, but somehow he hears.

He turns back, and I see the memory of our kiss in his eyes. After a long  
moment, he bows his head, and in that instant, I know that everything  
between us has changed. "You're welcome."

 

 

 

~*~

 

 


End file.
